Traveler
by Dom186
Summary: The year is 1947, and a brilliant young revolutionnary sets out through war-torn europe to seize his destiny.


Disclaimer: I don't own anything.

The year was 1947 and the inhabitants of Paris, muggles and wizards alike, were only just beginning to regain their legendary spirit after the war that had torn Europe in half. The scars it had left behind still adorning many a wall and monument. The _Gare de l'Est_ was no different and bore its own remainders etched in the stone, yet the people bustling around the busy train station seemed to pay no mind to the bullets holes and the unfixed roof, going about their business with the same graceful disdain that so characterized the French. Mothers half-leading, half-berating their children, couples oblivious to their surroundings, or important looking men walking hurriedly were conducting a strange symphony in the vast stone building, each focused on their own specific part.

So it was no surprise that no one noticed a young man appearing out of thin air next to the _Café de la Gare_. The young man in question was tall, with perfectly styled dark hair, and had aristocratic features fixed in a handsome, if exceedingly pale, face. He brushed some imaginary dust of his conservative dark suit and starch white shirt, wrapped long spindly fingers around the handle of his leather bag, and set off directly into the noisy establishment.

While the monuments may have been in need of repair, the Parisians had always held a special place in their heart for their _café_. Therefore the place held a polished atmosphere with mirrors of all shapes and sizes adorning the walls and reflecting the morning light that came in from the station's open rooftop. At ten in the morning, it was filled with patrons looking for their coffee fix. The young traveler bobbed and weaved between harried looking waiters clad in their white apron, his eyes quickly darting around the room until they stopped on a dusty mirror barely visible in a poorly lit alcove near the kitchens. Despite there being nothing particular about this mirror, a faded full length piece that belonged in a dark attic and had been rightly shoved out of sight, he knew this was it. Even before Hogwarts he'd had a talent for ferreting out hidden things, things that didn't belong, like him. He walked straight through it, knowing he wasn't being watched by anyone, he could always feel it if he was.

The sight that greeted him was like a warped reflection of the room he'd just left, the mirrors and white marble were the same, but now the patrons were dressed in robes of all the colors of the rainbow and the trays were no longer carried by waiters but were instead floating above the room and periodically descending to deliver drinks. In the back, some children were making faces at the muggles that appeared in what he could now see were one way mirrors. The young wizard's shoulders relaxed and his stance lost some of its rigidity as he inhaled deeply, the long wand made of a dark wood that had magically appeared in his hand was used to tap lightly on the right sleeve of his suit, sending a ripple that went down the length of his clothes, transforming them in an elegant set of robes of the same dark color. _Better_, he thought as he walked through the magical drinking establishment, while ducking a tray carrying a pumpkin juice and a butterbeer. He spared a quick glare to the waiter that had almost hit him, but decided to be magnanimous as he looked like a third year. Indeed, requiring only the use of the Wingardium Leviosa to serve drinks to various tables while not leaving the back of the room, waitering was often done by students looking for a summer job, or people of exceptionally low magical talent. He made his way to the revolving glass doors at the front of the café, and briefly debated stopping for a cup of tea before checking a silver pocket watch and deciding against it.

The _real_ Gare du Nord now stood before the traveler. Like many famous French buildings and monuments it managed to be simultaneously magical and muggle, the inside existing on two distinct "planes" co-existing on top of each other, one for each species. This type of magic, working along the same arithmentical mechanics as the space-enlargement charm was a great favorite of French enchanters and charm masters, who never failed to demonstrate their prowess by applying this complex enchantment to many of France's most famous historical buildings. Their claim that this particular approach of the Statute of Secrecy was made so as to not deprive the muggle population of some of its most beautiful architecture was naturally seen as arrogance and a desire to show off by the British. Besides, the odd person wearing lime-green robes was more easily brushed off as some avant-garde haute couture in Paris than London.

As the young man made his way past the owl station, recognizable by the many owls going in and out of the arched openings high above, he noticed the apparition terminal along with the Gendarmes stationed right in front. Clad in the cobalt robes with bronze fixings along with the golden fleur de lys of their office, the stern looking wizards were checking the wands and identities of all travelers. His gait did not change in the slightest as he was confident they would not check him, being already inside.

After a few minutes navigating the busy station, he found his destination next to the long distance floo terminal from the Austro-Hungarian Empire. It was a stone archway where the letters ORIENT EXPRESS could be read in faded bronze, a ticket inspector in his red uniform stood beneath.

"Bonjour Monsieur, votre ticket s'il vous plaît"

"Of course" replied the young man while handing over a ticket adorned with gold embossed letters.

The inspector waved his wand over the enchanted parchment, highlighting a few letters and some previously invisible text that he scrutinized intensely for a few seconds before nodding in satisfaction.

"Zhis way, Monsieur" said the inspector in a heavily accented voice as he led the young wizard through the archway.

The platform was mostly empty of passengers, except for a few harried looking families speaking with equally harried looking red clad employees, along with a number of house-elves levitating luggage into the gleaming train. The famous Orient Express itself was a thing of beauty, reminiscent of its equally famous british counterpart it was a turn of the century locomotive attached to a set of railcars made of polished and enchanted wood painted in a dark navy blue, each car was adorned with the golden emblem of the ICW to mark its status as a protected transport (a necessity in these troubled times).

"Voud you like a hoose-elf to carry your luggage Monsieur?" the uniformed man asked the traveler while eyeing the paltry leather bag with disdain.

The stranger didn't even bother with a response as he stalked past the Frenchman, having located his railcar already; he walked in quick strides towards the back of the platform, presented his ticket to another inspector and hopped inside just as they were announcing the last call.

The interior of the train held a definite air of luxury with its finely polished oak and brass, the ceiling was curved and decorated with painted tiles, the whole being suffused in the softly golden lighting of the faerie lights adorned chandeliers. The lateness of his arrival meant that the young wizard was able to quickly make his way down the corridor, most travelers having already settled, and find the door to his compartment, the number 7.

The booth already held one occupant.

"Ah! Entrez, jeune home, entrez! Nous nous demandions si notre mystérieux compagnon allez se montrer avant que le train ne départe"

The person that faced him was an old and frail looking gentleman, a well-worn brown set of robes were draped over his thin frame and his sunken face was adorned with a grey mustache and a pair of horn-rimmed glasses.

"Hello" he replied cautiously.

"An Englishman! This is a surprise indeed, we don't see much of your lot these days. Well come on in and sit down english" the old man exclaimed in a rough voice, switching flawlessly to English.

"Thank you sir, how do you do?" the young wizard retorted in a perfect example of british manners as he sat down while shedding his outer robes.

"Feh! I assure you I'm no _sir_. But shalom to you too my young friend, my name is Isaak Abrahimovitch Meyer, but you may call me Isaak. And what name do you carry english?"

The wizard lounging gracefully against the leather seat gave a smile that was all teeth.

"My name is Tom Marvolo Riddle"

"Gentle Wizards and Witches, it is my great pleasure to welcome you all to the Orient Express, the most luxurious and comfortable mode of transport available to Wizardkind. Our first stop will be Zurich, then it's onto Vienna, Budapest, Belgrade, and finally Constantinople. This train offers the finest of amenities for all tastes. So go visit one the restaurant car for a taste of our gold cauldron rated cuisine, stop for a relaxing message in the spa car, or enjoy some of our finest wines in the lounge car. Our staff is at your disposition with a simple tap of the wand on the touchstone that can be found in your cabin. Lastly, we ask you to please refrain from heavy wand usage in the common areas, as it can sometimes have an adverse effect on the space-enlargement enchantments. Thank you, and on behalf of the Geodfroy Magical Railways, I wish you a pleasant journey".

As the train conductor's magically enhanced voice faded, Tom felt the slight jolt indicating that they had started moving along with the customary twin blows of the chimney from the train's engine. And so his journey begins, he would be out of Europe within a day, and out of sight of Dumbledore's all-seeing eye, finally. He knew that the now-headmaster's reach was long, longer than he had understood when he was still in school. Indeed, he had started to realize that it had not merely been his own genius and talent that had allowed him such freedom to operate underneath the transfiguration master's very nose; it had also been the fact that Dumbledore had been distracted and often gone because of his ongoing fight with Grindelwald. Now that the dark wizard was no more, Tom had felt the weight of the old man's gaze more heavily, which was ironic given that he'd never once laid eyes on him in the two years since he'd left Hogwarts. But his instincts were never wrong, and he _knew_ that the wily old wizard was working his influence and magic to keep himself appraised of Tom's movements. And with his recent appointment as Headmaster, by popular acclaim after his already legendary defeat of the Dark Lord, he had known that any hopes he might have had of securing a position within Hogwarts were over, for now. He needed more knowledge, more influence, more _power_ to oppose Dumbledore, and any other who dared to bar him from his destiny.

"… which is why those _tipesh_ decided to give Morgenstern the new runic arrangement! As if that imbec…"

Tom's thoughts and Isaak's one-sided dialogue came to abrupt halt when the door to their compartment burst open. The intruder was 5 feet tall, missing a couple of front teeth, and sported a tuft of jet black hair.

"Zaydee! Zaydee! Did you hear the announcement? We're finally moving! And I went through the first class cabins, they're huge! And I…who is he?"

The black haired and bony thin child's enthusiastic diatribe was interrupted when he noticed Tom, who was just now pocketing the wand that had sprung to his hand in an instant.

"Calm down Sascha, this is Mr Riddle, he's to be our traveling companion. Now be polite and say hello"

"Hello Mr Riddle" was more or less mumbled by the child.

At this, Tom looked vaguely in the direction of this newest annoyance and unwittingly caught his gaze.

…_Run Sascha! Run!..._

…_Zieg Heil! Zeig Heil! Zeig Heil!..._

…_Stay down you filth!..._

…_Avada Kedavra..._

…_This is what your kind deserves…For the Greater good…_

…_MAMA!..._

The sudden surge of Legimency shook him to his core, not because he hadn't consciously initiated it, it was his natural instincts to seek out any weaknesses and openings in any mind and he'd been having these "insights" since he was seven years old, but rather because of its sheer mind-blowing intensity. Nothing in the world experiences pain and horror quite like a small child. And for a moment he saw his own face reflected in the gaunt features and hollow eyes that faced him, and almost felt bad for his fellow orphan. The moment didn't last long.

"Hello Sascha" he replied while displaying his most non-threatening smile, the one he used on Hufflepuffs back in the day. It was a moderate success seeing as the child shrank back from him towards the safety of Isaac, but at least he'd stopped babbling and seemed unaware of Tom's intrusion.

The old man for his part had have missed the interplay entirely, but Tom had already pegged him as not the most socially conscious of individuals, so that was no surprise.

"You're a good boy Sascha, now why don't you go and sit quietly for a little while" said the senior while patting the child on the head and relighting his pipe.

That said, they both went back to their previous activities, for Isaak that was doing the three-dimensional crossword puzzle from _Le Monde du Sorcier_, and for Tom it was mentally reviewing if he'd left any traces as he left Britain while playing around with some arithmency on his notebook. Sascha managed an heroic five minutes of fidgeting before making some vague claim about exploring, and dashed out again.

He stared after the boy for a few seconds as he left …_MAMA!... _Poor, poor Sascha. It had been a long time since Tom himself had been thus, but he hadn't forgotten the orphanage and his own humble beginnings. They had made him what he was today after all, and now that he'd overcome them he could almost see them as somewhat beneficial. He had needed to endure the the pain and humiliation of his youth in order to harden his spirit. Those early lessons were all that saved him during his rebirth in the Chamber of Secrets. Without them, the soul shattering pain and horror as he bit into his very essence tore out a piece and spit it out, would have torn him asunder. But it had been worth it. Deep beneath the heavy stones of Hogwarts and under the solemn gaze of his ancestor he had reinvented himself. He had made himself and others bleed in order to purge his father's filthy blood from his veins. Until finally he went to Little Hangleton and cut off the diseased limb; shedding the stain of his impure parentage like an old skin and laying claim to the Slytherin dynasty. Now came the time to honor it.

It was his vaunted ancestor that guided his path even now. Indeed Tom might be the only person in the world to have heard the story of the Founders of Hogwarts from the last living witness to the end of their reign. He was also conveniently the only person able to understand it and or look into its eyes. It was indeed the basilisk that had spun him the tale of the death of Godric Gryffindor and the subsequent exile of Salazar Slytherin. However, while that sounded very impressive, snakes had no ability (or interest for that matter) to understand english so the story had been rather confusing, all that he had really gotten out of it was that Slytherin had fought against his three brethren (his nest as the snake had called it). The fight had ended with Gryffindor dead, and Slytherin injured and on the run. The basilisk still remembered the last words spoken to him by his father before the stasis spell overtook it.

"_Sleep now my sweet. Sleep and grow strong and await the call of my blood. I am forced to abandon my home to its cursed fate. In time you shall become my wrath and enact terrible vengeance on those BETRAYERS! Now I am for Epirus Nova to continue my work in purer surroundings"_

Epirus Nova. The ancient name of a province in the Roman Empire, more commonly referred to as Macedonia, though it was now known as Albania to muggles. So when he had started feeling the need to get out of the old man's influence the destination had been obvious. The fact that the area was well known for harboring rogue warlocks and dark creatures of all kinds was just the cherry on top.

In fact, the farther from his homeland and all he'd known he got, the freer Tom felt. The gentle rumbling of the train and the rapidly changing scenery lulled him and his thoughts were coming to him unbridled and fast as lightning. Complex equations, grandiose dreams of future glories, and dark dwellings dripping with blood and magic fought a war for dominance in his mind. He took it all in and reveled in it for a while. Everything was clearer now, and he no longer had any doubts about his decision to leave. It seemed as though the entire world was stretched out in front of him and he could see every cog and wheel of its great and ancient machinery, and it was all _his._

To honor his ancestor and enact the cleansing that the drowning wizarding world desperately required and to reach the darkest depths and greatest heights that the _art _offered, he would need to breach ancient treaties and contact forbidden beings, to face his blackest fears and deepest desires, but most importantly he would need to _sacrifice_.

That was how magic had always worked after all. Call it a trade, a price, or a prayer the concept remained the same; nothing in this world was ever free. For power to be gained, equal power had to be lost, or transferred would be a more accurate term. Dumbledore, in one of his more nebulous lectures, had once described the difference between dark and light magic in such a way. He'd said that light magic gained its power from the sacrifice of oneself, while the dark gained his by the sacrifice of others. Tom had mentally called "bullshit" while outwardly agreeing with the old geezer. All this meant to him was that energy stayed constant no matter its vessel, and that it could be transferred, which was a good lesson. He would later put that lesson into practice and consider with irony that the old teacher's definition made the creation of an Horcrux the ultimate act of Light magic.

While deep in thoughts, Tom's hand had been a constant blur on his leather bound notebook. Sketches of intricate runes and wand movements were intermingled with complex equations and random remarks on the white pages, all done in a neat and elegant script.

Meanwhile, his fellow traveler had moved on from his crossword puzzle to an oversized and dusty tome and was perusing it closely while inhaling the occasional purple puff of smoke from his pipe. After the old man had introduced himself he'd explained that he and his great-nephew Sascha were traveling to Vienna where he was a researcher at the Austrian Academy for Higher Magicks. Tom for his part had made the inexplicit claim of being a recent Hogwarts graduate travelling the world, which was actually very accurate. Finding himself mildly intrigued by the glimpses he'd received from the young boy's mind and with nothing better to do, he decided to sate his curiosity by questioning his great-uncle.

"Are you looking forward to going back to the Academy Isaak?" He inquired in a well-practiced honeyed tone, lacing his words with the subtlest hints of magic, a trick from his school days.

The old man looked up sharply scattering some ashes on the vellum, having apparently forgotten his companion's presence.

"Hmmm? Oh, yes I suppose. But to be honest, I'm more anxious to get back to my research. I'm running several runic schemes that need constant management lest the magical influx becomes too high, and I'm sure my jealous colleagues are just itching to get their grubby hands on them"

"Really? Sounds fascinating, but if your research was so delicate, what brought you and Sascha to Paris in the first place? After all, in these troubled times it can't be very safe, or easy, to travel with a young boy."

At this he was referring to the fact that most countries still hadn't lifted the restrictions on the massive wards preventing all forms of magical travel that encircled them. These days obtaining a permit for international floo travel cost an arm, a leg and your firstborn; to say nothing of Portkeys, being highly capricious and hard to make, they had been a luxury even before the war and were now pretty much reserved to the Old Families or ICW officials. This was the reason why Tom himself was here, not willing to risk slipping by a number of successive highly powerful wards monitored 24/7, he had been forced to take the slow option.

"Well, actually Sascha and I don't…Hmm, that is to say he used to live with his parents, my nephew and his wife, but the war took them both. I didn't even know about the lad until I received an owl from the _chevra kadisha _that I was his last family and to come pick him up."

"Oh I'm truly sorry to hear that, my condolences. I hope it wasn't too hard on him, it is truly a shame when it is the innocent who suffer" he replied while thinking the opposite. _Adversity breeds strength_.

"Yes, yes it is. He has a difficult path awaiting him, but Elohim be willing, the days ahead will be brighter. Though from what I've seen in my many years, I can't help but doubt it."

"His parents, how did they die if I may be ghoulish enough to ask? It's just that I suffered my own losses to this war and that I find it therapeutic to hear others tale." He asked, plain lying now.

The old wizard looked unsure for a moment, before succumbing to the warm and friendly charisma of the mysterious young man that faced him.

"Oh, no it's okay I suppose. I honor them by telling their story after all. They suffered the fate of far too many of our people. They were living in Montmartre at the time, or so I'm told. You see, my nephew was part of the Resistance, helping to smuggle the victims of the third reich out of France. I heard that it was one of those new muggle metal dragons that got him in the end, the things these people come up with I tell you. As for Sascha's mother, well… She lost her wand sometime during the occupation and they were forced to live as muggles… They came for her one night and took her away. Sascha only escaped by performing his first bout of accidental magic and casting a Notice-me-not charm. The local rabbi told me that they'd tracked her remains to Auschwitz using a drop of the boy's blood in order for her to be buried in accordance with our rites."

The old man finished his tale with haunted eyes and by taking an especially long pull of his pipe, there would be no more talking.

That…was about what he'd expected. He only saw one more example of the monstrosities that muggles had been raining down on the world for centuries. Hearing those german fools mouthing of about blood purity and a master race was like watching children play dress up. So pathetic that Tom found it somewhat humorous. He was convinced that muggles as a race were flawed because while they lacked magic, subconsciously they _desired_ it. This meant that every muggle was always in a mad rush to fill that void with whatever form of power was on hand. Be it sex, influence, money, violence or religion it didn't matter, they were all just paltry substitutes for the real thing, for _magic_. This perpetual paradox was at the center of their psyche and explained their uncivilized nature and erratic actions. Basically, as a race, they were just begging to be subjugated by their more evolved counterparts. At least that was his opinion, but then again he managed to find a new reason to explain the muggle's innate stupidity almost every other week.

The subject of their conversation came back not long after, but Tom's insatiable curiosity had been abated so he couldn't care less and he went back to his work using a spell to block out the sound of the boy's voice as he recounted his extensive exploration of the train.

Several hours later the sky had darkened, they had already passed Zurich and were due to reach

Vienna by the next morning, despite the innumerable checkpoints they had to stop for.

The youngest Meyer was asleep on the comfortable looking cot that had appeared after a tap on the keystone along with the relevant spell, and was sleeping fitfully. The other two occupants were enjoying a cup of tea while playing their third game of chess (the board having been supplied by a helpful hostess).

"Damn you english! I haven't lost a game in nearly eight years, ever since the death of my old Maester from the Academy, and I've won the Runes Department annual chess competition for the last five! How are you doing this?"

The young man smirked. In all fairness, the old academic was very good, but the fact remained that like always, Tom was just _better._

"Well with all respect, you should have known that using the Caro-Kann defense would have failed after I took your rook. Besides, it was bit obvious considering Kann was from Vienna"

"You…are a very intelligent young man. I must say, english, I haven't always had the best impression of Hogwarts graduate in the past, but if there's any more there like you, I may just have to change my tune! Besides, your Scottish school is all the rage these days with the famous Dumbledore coming on as headmaster. A true hero that one, the whole of Europe owes him a debt."

Tom's habitual pleased feeling that came whenever someone praised his intelligence had disappeared by the end of the sentence. Luckily, a particularly loud moan coming from Sascha's direction interrupted any more extoling of the _great and powerful Dumbledore._ Nevertheless his mood was soured and he was about to make his excuses when a plaintive sound made him look up.

"Do you have any family Tom?" asked Isaak in a somber tone while eyeing the child.

Ice settled in his stomach in a flash, both at the mention of family and of his _name_. The old man was standing beside his nephew, a hand gently stroking his hair while whispering a few words in what sounded like Yiddish.

"No"

"I see, that's a sadness. For a long time I didn't either… You see, my family was very religious and followed the Halakha studiously. We were raised by the community and our elders taught us magic, it was a very closed-off environment. So, naturally, as a young man I rebelled against it, abandoned the Halakha, Jewish Law, and enrolled in university. I then spent my life buried in ancient books and scrolls, searching for…I'm not sure anymore, enlightenment maybe? I was cut off from my family, from my parents and my brother, permanently. And now, fifty years later, I'm the only one of us left and I have to take care of a child with my brother's eyes…How does that make sense?" the old man wasn't even really speaking at Tom by that point and was instead gazing at his last family.

Tom didn't know and didn't care, so he turned to leave the cabin in order to stretch his legs. He asked a last question before stepping out however.

"Did you ever find it? Enlightenment?"

The old man's only answer was a sad smile.

While walking to the next railcar, he shrunk the leather bag that he'd grabbed out of basic paranoia and slipped it in his pocket. As he made his way through the sleepy train and dimmed hallways, he noticed that each railcar was named after a famous French wizard. He had started in the _Clovis_ car and was now in the _Richelieu_, an ostensibly first class car. The hallway was twice as wide with a luscious red carpet and golden...everything. The walls were decorated with famous reproductions, and house-elves clad in different types of livery stood before each of the oak doors, ready to answer their masters call. Walking past each cabin, he could feel the intricate magic bound to them all, a mix of space-enlargement and temperature management enchantments along with some privacy wards and more. All that the rich and privileged needed to forget little details like "reality". He also realized that the over-abundance of magic littering every square inch of this car was the reason why the third class cars had received so little charsmwork of their own. They had probably exceeded the runic matrix's tolerance, leaving nothing for the less fortunate passengers. A less enlightened wizard would probably see some type of social injustice at work here, but to him it made sense.

The next car was the lounge that the conductor had mentioned. It was a large circular room (a wasteful expenditure of magical energy in his opinion) decorated in the same vein as the _Richelieu_. Soft music, softer lights, and a constant haze of smoke added the finishing touch. It was occupied by only a few night owls, barely visible in the shady room.

He had scarcely sat down at one of the booths that a waiter appeared before him.

"Good evening Monsieur. The gentleman over there would like to bid you to join him for a drink."

The gentleman in question was seated a couple of booth over and was quite unlike any he had seen before. He had chocolate colored skin framed in a closely trimmed salt and pepper beard and sported two piercing black eyes, the top of his head was covered by a turban made of dark cloth. He wore intricate robes of the same expensive material that seemed to shimmer between black, blue and purple depending on the light; and with a hundred glittering tiny gems of all colors embedded in the trims. He exuded wealth, confidence and power.

Intrigued, Tom stood up and walked to the exotic looking stranger.

"Seeing as we're the only two patrons of this fine establishment it seemed a shame not to take this opportunity to greet a fellow _traveler._"

The way the middle-eastern man had uttered the last word sent a shiver down his spine. It had echoed of something deeper and called to some intrinsic part of him. His instincts told him that this man had just played the opening move in a game, he just wasn't sure what it was yet. But he wanted to find out. He sat down.

"Assalaam Alaikum" the stranger greeted him in an accented voice.

"Wa Alaikum assalaam" Tom replied, always willing to display his knowledge.

This made the stranger smile, showing brilliant white teeth that glinted like fangs in the darkened room.

An angel flew with the two men observing each other in silence.

"My people call this time of night Isha, it is my favorite among all others" His voice held a deep and melodic quality and he smelled of spices and myrrh.

The young man's only response was to take a sip of the steaming tea; it tasted like mint and lemon, with a bitter aftertaste. He found that he liked it.

"I find it is also the best time to meet new people. In the dark of night, a man's true nature appears brighter" he said with laughter in his intelligent eyes that reminded him faintly of his old professor.

"Is that so? And what _is_ my true nature then?"

The man's eyes instantly lost their laughter and focused sharply on the younger wizard.

"You? You are a _riddle_. Slave and Conqueror. Betrayer and Redeemer. Lonely child and angry god. Your nature resides in dichotomy. Your ancient snake blood shackles you. Your fear constrains you. Death will never be your vassal if you keep on the path you are now"

Tom inhaled sharply and found that he was shaking. Every single word had felt like a stab to the heart. This hadn't been legimency, divination or even prophecy. This had been _truth._

"_What are you?_"

"You tell me"

The young man felt a sharp burst of white hot anger. This man, whatever he was, had somehow stripped him of his secrets. He had to die. But first he would rip out his own secrets in return…

What Tom was about to attempt was a technique of his own creation derived from a wizarding bloodline talent commonly referred to as astral projection. A wizard possessing the correct genes, given the right training and discipline, could create a metaphysical entity while meditating, known as the "mind's eye". The wizard could then send this "eye" over vast distances allowing him to see and hear anything he desired, provided the space wasn't warded against it.

Tom's version was different however. He had modified the process using forbidden Hindu chakra points, in order to give more substance to the metaphysical construct, weaving some of his own essence and magic into it. He had originally been looking for a way to work magic over great distances but what he had found was something else altogether. It was a way to expand his consciousness beyond anything he'd ever known…

It started as a single thought within his mind, the barest of expressions of will. Then the thought bled downwards, leaving the realm of consciousness and reason, gaining light and sound, and flesh and bone, and hate and desire, and _magic._ The original thought was now a pulsing, bleeding, living thing clawing at the inside of his guts, and with the utmost discipline and control, he let it slowly pour outwards.

The world exploded.

…_The wood under his fingers was eastern black walnut cut from a tree bordering a village in the Jura mountains…The tea on his tongue contained mint leaves, wormwood, pine nuts and lemon verbena…This train was going at ninety miles an hour...There was one hundred and twenty six different runes supporting eighteen different enchantments in this room alone… A fly was buzzing eighteen inches from his hand, it would burn within seven minutes_…

**ENOUGH!**

The world stilled. He stopped the flow and reasserted his will, clutching his pocket in which resided a leather bound diary. He needed to focus. He sank back inside himself and directed his consciousness towards the man seated in front of him.

_He went past the Damascene silk and precious stones, past the dark skin and laughing eyes, until he reached the core. He felt its wounded pride and broken honor. He saw a woman's warm brown eyes staring back at him. He heard the sounds of a brutal struggle accompanied by the drums of war. He felt blood running down his hands and fire running through his veins. And he could sense the vast dark well of power that bound it all together._

But Tom was not satisfied and went deeper still.

…_A burning mosque, believers lighting up like fireflies…An obscure temple, an inverted pentagram, a ritual circle dripping with blood…A __**dagger**__ with a bone handle plunging into flesh…Screams of agony…_

Tom blinked and with a great effort of will, dragged his mangled soul back into his body. It took him a few agonizing minutes of pure discipline. This was the reason why he tried not to use this technique too often. The soul _wanted_ to be free of its bone and blood prison. In fact, the only reason his own wasn't scattered across the earth right now was that he carried a piece of it in his pocket, binding it to the earth. A trait he shared with the man in front of him.

His fellow _traveler_ had created a Horcrux of his own.

As if hearing his thoughts (which wasn't the case he reflected after rechecking his occlumency shields), the old wizard inclined his head.

"_I_ am Amir äl-Mü'min ve Khalife, emissary to his Sacred and Imperial Majesty Sultan Mehmed the VIII, on my way back to İstanbul, or Constantinople as you westerners insist on calling my city. And whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?"

"My name is Tom Riddle"

At this, the man's face which had been fixed in a serene expression quickly shifted to outrage.

"I have given you my _true _name! Yet you would insult me by hiding behind that moniker? Now I ask again, what is your name wizard?!"

"My name is Lord Voldemort"

A few seconds after that, the air caught fire…


End file.
